The Bottle, the Pill, the Powder
by JellyBob
Summary: Exiled from the only remaining colony cluster after the war, the pilots return to a much-changed earth and fight to survive, love each other, and give humanity a second wind. Post-apocalyptic fic. Eventual 1x2 and 3x4, angst, dark!fic, violence.


AN: Hello, friends. This is a post-apocalyptic Gundam Wing spin-off that assumes the destruction of the world and most of outer space during the war, inspired by my obsession with end-of-humanity stories and angsty romances. I was thinking more "The Road" and less "Fallout 3" when I started this, so it's in a nuclear winter vein, with very little vegetation or animal life. I apologize for the liberties with the geography, technology, and sciences. I did the best research I could, but I do allow myself some inaccuracies for the sake of storytelling. Title is derived from Charles Bukowski's "Dinosauria, We," my favorite apocalyptic poem of all time.

**Story warnings: Very, very dark fic. Angst, violence, gore, slash, language, NCS, slight chance of character death, eventual 1x2 and 3x4. No one is safe from whumping. I'm an all-inclusive torturer, although this story will probably be a teeny bit Duo-centric.**

Please read, enjoy, and review, if it pleases and sparkles.

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><p><strong>The Bottle, the Pill, the Powder<br>****by JellyBob**

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><p>It'd been Duo's idea to return to earth.<p>

"Well, why not?" he had demanded, lounging back in his cockpit. "It's the only society that hasn't rejected us yet, and I'm pretty sick of relieving myself in few and far between space toilets."

He had a point on both counts. Their Gundams were built as weapons, not dwellings, but the five of them had taken on almost full-time residence in their suits since the only remaining colony cluster had decided it didn't want to lodge war criminals. The first few months had been the worst. Turned out drifting aimlessly amid battle debris and dead bodies was sort of bad for the morale. But then they'd found allies in Howard and Lucrezia Noin, Iria Winner, the members of the Maguanac Corps who had survived the war—a fact that finally got Quatre talking again, which in turn sparked a reaction from Trowa, who then goaded Heero into joining them, and by then Wufei was just bored and lonely enough to jump into their conference calls, too. They'd been coasting around Mars when Duo made the suggestion. Mars looked a lot like the earth did now, cloudy and dead—just slightly less threatening.

"Right, did you hear about L2's compromise?" asked Quatre. "I know they meant it as a joke, but if there's any chance she's alive, I think it's worth a try. It's certainly more useful than what we're doing these days."

"They're trying to save face," said Trowa. "They want their white dove."

Duo snorted. "Which sucks, because peace is actually the only cause we've _ever_ toted. So what say you, fellas? Feeling up to a suicide mission to ol' Mother Blue?"

"Mother Gray," observed Wufei, not without some bitterness.

"Gather all the supplies you can from the supports we still have," said Heero, "and let's go."

So they went.

Atmospheric reentry had been catastrophic. Wing Zero's heat shields had gotten Heero to earth in one relatively unscathed piece, and Sandrock's armor kept Quatre from receiving more than three bruised ribs and a mild concussion. The others had been less fortunate. Deathscythe, Altron, and Heavyarms had been devastated, and so had their pilots. Forty-seven broken bones between the three of them. Heero and Quatre blew through most of their medical supplies in order to keep them alive for the first few weeks. The next month was touch-and-go: spare clothes became slings; wounds were cauterized with knives and scrap metal. Wufei lost two fingers to frostbite, and they had to re-break a compound fracture in Duo's shin that was healing improperly. They'd been lucky enough to crash not far from a fresh water source, but it carried a chill, adding more bite to the already-cutting cold. They crammed together for warmth each night, Quatre and Heero bookending their injured. The blankets they huddled beneath grew stiff and fusty with blood.

In the end, their endurance paid off. Trowa was out of the woods first, slower but functional, taking over Quatre's mantle as field medic while Quatre gathered kindling and edibles from the forest. Wufei joined Heero and stood sentry. He refined his left-handed swordsmanship and martial arts, making no allusions to his three-fingered hand. Duo was the last to get back onto his feet, but not before his good humor made a full recovery. "Give me a _brief_ run-down of our situation," he told Trowa, after he'd caught him splinting his leg with a spare pair of underwear. Even Heero had smiled. They had all survived for a month and a half on the new earth. It was more than any of them had really expected.

During that time, they saw only two other groups of survivors, both well outside the boundaries of their makeshift encampment: three young men who demonstrated no hostility, and a faction of heavily-armed raiders whom Heero and Wufei did not confront. Recumbent, the Gundams were not visible from any of the roads, but staying at rest anywhere near a travelled path was suicide. They were trying their luck. The moment they were all capable of moving and speaking lucidly, they held a meeting.

"Plans," Heero prompted.

"We need to relocate," said Trowa. "That means that we need to settle on a route."

Duo shifted a little closer, grimacing when the movement disturbed his injured leg. "Where the hell are we, anyway?"

Quatre passed him a map with their location starred and knelt beside him to point, his teeth chattering faintly. "So far as we can figure, we're right about here. We'll have a lot of walking to do. Obviously, the crash landing wasn't ideal, but I think we can all agree that staying together and surviving was far more important than trying to make it closer to our destination."

"Which is—?"

"New Port City," said Heero, before anyone else could reply. "Or, failing that, Brussels."

Everyone was silent for a moment, processing the significance of those locations. No one seemed willing to contradict him. At last, Duo sighed and threw his arms up under his blanket. "Okay, if no one else wants to say it, I will," he said. "There are two major problems with that. First, why are we assuming that her majesty would return to the sites of either the Sanc Kingdom or the Earth Sphere United Nation? Given how things turned out, you'd think that she'd be more inclined to start fresh somewhere else. Somewhere less dangerous. There's no sense in repeating past mistakes, right?"

Heero turned on him, glaring. "Relena's efforts were not mistakes!"

Duo was unaffected by his outburst. "Chill. That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"It does seem idealistic," Quatre admitted, "but so is Miss Relena. I trust that she would begin building from a place of tradition, no matter the danger. She has that type of integrity. The type you can build a world around."

For the first time since their discussion began, Wufei spoke up, his voice carrying grimly from beyond the orange glow of their fire. "It is unlikely that a woman has survived in these conditions."

"Less misogyny to keep them warm at night," Duo agreed.

Wufei stepped into the light and sat down on the cold log between Heero and Trowa. His brows were furrowed. "Don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that women are _incapable_ of survival, but in a post-apocalyptic world, we might need to operate under the assumption that certain—" he hesitated, searching for an appropriate word, "—civilities have been rejected. One of them involving the treatment of women. The _use_ of women."

Another beat of silence, this one longer. "You think women have been commodified?" asked Trowa at last.

"No way," said Quatre, his mouth set in a hard line. "We can't be that far gone as a species. It's only been a year!"

"A year in which a galaxy-wide war has obliterated ninety-nine percent of the human race," Wufei pointed out. "Look around you. Earth's been plunged into a nuclear winter. There is no government here, no law enforcement, no moral code. The only other people we've seen so far have been marauders, and all of them have been armed and male. We don't know the rules here. If we want to survive, we're going to have to assume that things are as bad as they can get, at least until something—or someone—proves us wrong."

"Wufei," Trowa said softly.

"I'm sorry," said Wufei. "I know. But it's something we must bear in mind."

Judging by the tension in their postures, his comments had disturbed Heero even more than Quatre, but neither one argued against him. Twigs crackled in the campfire. Trowa threw in another log. Heero leaned closer toward the flames, rolling a spent bullet cartridge slowly between his dirt-caked palms. Against the stark contrast of the long shadows, his face was still, unreadable.

Duo felt a soft pang in his stomach that he didn't quite understand. He clasped one hand briefly to Heero's shoulder. "Back to when we find Relena," he said, his word choice deliberate. "There's just one other teensy, 350-mile issue. It starts with an 'E' and ends with a '-nglish Channel.' Are the Gundams operable, or were we all supposed to bring our swimming trunks?"

It was a more concrete, approachable issue, and they were happy to focus on it. "We would've been fine if the Gundams hadn't been in such a state of disrepair during reentry," said Heero. "Sandrock and Wing Zero are salvageable if we use parts from the others, but they're not going to run without some serious repair work, let alone survive a trip to outer space. We'll have to find either a supply of micro-fusion reactors or an alternate means of travel. Ideas?"

"The Corsica Base is the closest location I can think of, but 'close' is a relative term, seeing as it's on an island," Trowa said. "It might have spare parts _or_ spare ships, though."

At that, Quatre glanced up at him, his eyes gentle. "Corsica. That's where you and I first met."

Trowa paused and smiled.

"Well, unless you two know how to build bridges out of sexual tension, we've still got geographical issues," Duo pointed out, making Trowa cough and Quatre's cheeks redden. "Do you really think we should bank on finding a working aircraft by the time we reach the southern coast?"

"We'll have to," said Heero reluctantly. "I might be able to swim the channel, but the rest of you—"

"—are _humans_?" said Duo.

"—are too important to do something so ill-advised," Heero finished. "I am the only expendable member of this party. You four have too much to offer society outside of a war setting."

It caught everyone off-guard. No one knew how to respond right away. Wufei and Trowa exchanged a look, and Quatre lowered his eyelashes with shy unease. Duo spoke up first after regaining his bearings, placing his hand back on Heero's shoulder. This time he left it there, and Heero didn't move away from it.

"You're not expendable, Heero."

"None of us are," said Trowa. He looked hesitant. "A year or two ago, I might've said differently, but we're doing work now that most people can't. Trying to find Relena Peacecraft is a worthy cause."

"Relena is a worthy cause," repeated Heero in agreement.

That hadn't been exactly what Trowa meant, but it made Heero sit up a little straighter, so it had fulfilled its purpose. It was getting darker now, colder. They were all above complaining about the weather, but even swathed in half a dozen layers before a blazing campfire, the chill was brutal. Quatre leaned closer to Trowa, sniffling. Trowa responded by drawing his own blanket around Quatre's shoulders in a reflexive, unfussy way that made Quatre freeze and glance at Duo with something akin to panic. Duo quirked an eyebrow at him, grinning. He still didn't know if he preferred being exiled to a frigid, hostile planet any more than being adrift in space, but at least now they could handle some of this interpersonal shit. The five of them had grown closer through video chats in their Gundams, but it had done nothing to alleviate some of their more—intimate dilemmas.

"Wait," said Wufei. "So this conversation is over?"

Everyone gazed around at each other, shrugged. "Guess so," said Duo, tucking his hands behind his head. "Did you have anything to add?"

"No. Yes. I just—can I summarize our strategy, as I understand it?"

"Go for it," said Heero.

"Okay," said Wufei. "We walk four hundred miles in freezing weather to Brussels and New Port City, perhaps swimming the English Channel in the process, keeping an eye out for a working vehicle with a fuel tank that hasn't been siphoned in the past year. We find Relena Peacecraft alive and in good health, then we escort her another nine hundred miles to the island base in Corsica, where we will find a ship that can withstand a trip to outer space—or, in the case of micro-fusion reactors, we walk and swim back the way we came to repair the Gundams and fly, crammed three in each cockpit, to L2. We elude the constant threat of death at the hands of armed raiders, subsisting entirely off of ration bars, mushrooms, and tree bark. By some miracle, no one dismantles our unattended Gundams during this journey. And somehow—_somehow_—we don't kill ourselves _or_ each other in this process."

"Basically," said Quatre.

"You got it," said Duo.

"That's the plan," said Heero.

Wufei looked around at them incredulously, opened his mouth to protest—then sighed and closed it again. "Well, now that that's clear, all right," he said. "Let's get ready to leave."

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><p>Sometime during Duo, Wufei, and Trowa's recoveries, Heero and Quatre had been bored enough to collect everyone's supplies from their cockpits and sort them into five neat categories. Now they packed them into huge military rucksacks and, as a wry means of entertainment, assigned each pilot a bag that corresponded to his primary responsibilities. Heero carried the projectile-firing armaments. Wufei was in charge of melee weapons. Trowa, now officially their makeshift doctor, conveyed their medical equipment, and Quatre took the spare clothes and tarps and other shelter-building materials.<p>

They gave Duo the food.

"Ha fucking ha," Duo grumbled, adjusting the straps of his backpack. Who knew that ration bars were so heavy? Sure, they'd brought like a million of them, but still. "Hey. Heero. Wouldn't it be smarter to distribute everything equally among the bags so we're all prepared?"

"Better organization this way," said Heero.

"And what if we get separated?"

"We are not going to get separated. If we separate, we're dead." Heero's tone was inarguable.

"Besides, if we _did_ get separated, you'd have the best chance at survival," said Quatre helpfully.

Duo considered crafting some irrational argument about Heero and Wufei cannibalizing passersby and Trowa storing water in the biohazard bags, but decided against it. "Who cares about that, Quatre? The implications are still there. I'm the big eater while Wufei gets to be the master of close combat, Trowa's remedial, and you're, like—you know, all cozy and domestic and shit. You're homely."

"Doesn't mean what you think it means," said Trowa, when Quatre's face fell.

"The rest of the packs inhibit movement too much; that's all it is," said Heero, relenting. He gave one of the handguns a professional once-over before tucking it into his belt. "Your leg is still recovering. If we have to fight, just find somewhere safe to lie low. The rest of us will cover you."

"Great," said Duo. He felt suddenly morose. "Not only am I the fat one, I'm also the useless one."

Heero didn't even look at him. "You need time to regain your strength. We know you'll start pulling your weight as soon as you can. Your _ample_ weight."

Duo's head snapped up. Was Heero—teasing him? Was the guy even _capable_ of that? Duo eyed him warily, but he was already pulling ahead, distributing semi-automatics to the others. Trying to be casual, Duo sneaked a quick glance down at his stomach to check for any signs of excess weight. Even under the bulk of his sweaters and jackets, he looked perfectly slender. He glowered at Heero's back and rushed to catch up with his companions.

He did a decent job of keeping pace with them for a good two hours, but eventually his bad leg began to protest, and he started dropping behind. They didn't slow down for him outright—for that, he was grateful. He didn't want to hamper their progress. Instead, one or two of them would walk back to him every once in a while to brief him on their situation, offer him water, or even just chat a little before jogging back to the vanguard. Quatre, of course, always lingered the longest and talked the most. He looked strange in his gloves and long brown coat, his complexion so washed out by the permanent gray of their surroundings that his eyes seemed paler, starker. Once he and Duo were out of everyone else's earshot, he swiped the soot off of his pants and sighed. Their feet crunched over the twigs and rubbish on the forest floor.

"It hurts seeing it like this," said Quatre. "The earth, I mean. Does that make any sense? I feel like it was the last innocent thing."

_You're the last innocent thing_, Duo thought—and bit it back. Objectively, it wasn't as if Quatre had made it through the war with any less blood on his hands or any fewer scars in his heart. He wasn't a saint. He was a soldier, just like the rest of them. And yet—he had this way about him. Something intact where everyone else had broken; the humility to blush, the fortitude to smile and mean it. He and Duo had become best friends through dozens of marathon vid chats, saving all the juicy emotional stuff for after Heero, Wufei, and Trowa had signed off. Duo knew Quatre well enough to realize that telling him he served as a beacon—one as momentous as the earth itself, in Quatre's view—would be a cruel responsibility to impose upon him. Quatre was just trying to keep breathing. They all were.

"It'll heal," Duo said instead. "Maybe not in our lifetime, but someday. Hell, plants are already growing in."

"Mushrooms are fungi," said Quatre. "They don't count as plants."

"So this mushroom walks into a bar," Duo began.

"I've heard this one."

Duo switched gears. "So a mushroom, a pickle, and a penis start comparing sob stories."

Quatre's ears turned red and he started laughing. "I don't know if I _want_ to hear this one," he said, then glanced forward, a glint in his eyes. "Oh—here. Maybe you could tell it to Heero."

"Tell me what?" said Heero.

In his surprise, Duo almost pulled his gun. Thankfully, he thought better of it before it was too late—he'd had to beg Heero for a weapon in the first place; Heero was of the opinion that if Duo was armed, he would instinctively jump into any scuffles that they might encounter. He was right, of course. Like hell Duo was going to hit the ground and whimper when he had a loaded pistol and damn good aim. He felt shame over his persisting injury, even though Quatre had apologetically claimed full responsibility for not setting the bone correctly the first time. Duo still felt like a burden. A burden with a limp and a very confusing, childish, un-soldier-like crush.

"Tell me what," Heero repeated, with a note of impatience.

"A joke," said Quatre. "A funny one." He ignored Duo's pleading looks and began gliding ahead, his pale scarf streaming behind him. "I need to go talk to Trowa and Wufei about. You know. Talk to you later." He pretended not to notice the handful of twigs Duo hurled at his back and was out of range in moments. Dick.

Heero waited until Quatre had disappeared into the trees ahead before turning to Duo expectantly. Duo hesitated. He wasn't sure he felt comfortable telling Heero the mushroom-pickle-penis joke; he'd only been bluffing when he'd started it for Quatre. "It's actually not that funny," Duo muttered at last, lamely. Chickening out was better than subjecting Heero to his dirty humor. "If I ever hear one that's worth repeating, though, you'll be the first to hear it. Promise."

It occurred to Duo an instant later that Heero had been providing him a rare concession: a conversation-starter. He felt dumb for not taking him up on that offer. The two of them walked in silence, Heero staring forward so resolutely that Duo felt sure he was purposely avoiding eye contact. Duo chewed on his lower lip and concentrated instead on the steady pulses of pain he felt with every step. His hip was starting to feel the strain of favoring his left leg for so many miles, and his shin was killing him. He'd sooner amputate it than ask for a rest, though. He was pretty sure his pain tolerance was lower than Heero's or Wufei's, for example, but he had them all schooled in obstinacy. It was something he prided himself on.

"I know a joke," said Heero abruptly.

"You do?" Duo tried not to sound as surprised as he felt, but it was hard. "Awesome. Hit me."

"Okay." Heero cleared his throat. "What is brown and sticky?"

"Uh—"

"A stick," said Heero.

It wasn't that Duo didn't find it funny. He did. But he'd been bracing himself to execute a boisterous courtesy laugh, so when the joke actually struck him as amusing, he just kind of blanked out and gaped at him. Heero waited, then frowned and ducked his head. He looked uncomfortable.

"It was better when Trowa told it."

"No, no, it was really good!" said Duo. "I liked it. I'm going to have to pass that one on." The significance of Heero's words sunk in a few steps later, and Duo turned to him, his interest piqued. "Trowa tells jokes?"

"Sometimes," said Heero.

He stepped over a fallen tree, then offered Duo an arm to steady him. Duo seized it with a little too much enthusiasm and promptly compounded the faux pas by holding on a beat too long. He let go and swiped a casual hand through his hair, hoping Heero hadn't noticed. Heero hadn't. His eyes were distant, shaded with something troubled and complicated and familiar. They all had tendencies to stare into nothing like that when they thought no one else was looking, even Quatre and Wufei. Duo tried to bring him back as gently as he could: "Trowa never tells _me_ any jokes. You must be special, yeah?"

Heero seemed ill at ease again, but at least he was focused. "I think Trowa and I understand each other. We talked in space whenever the rest of you were unavailable."

Wow. So while Quatre and Duo were having their long one-on-one chats, Trowa and Heero were doing the same thing—although Duo couldn't imagine the two of them gossiping and inventing terrible magic tricks like he had with Quatre. Who knew, though? Apparently there had been joke-telling; that was more than Duo would've expected from either Trowa or Heero. It just went to show that they still had plenty to learn about each other. Somehow, that made Duo feel very pleased and very lonely at the same time.

"How's your leg?" Heero asked, noticing his limp.

"Eh," said Duo, waving one hand. "Nothing I can't handle."

"I feel responsible for your injury."

"So does Quatre. It's no one's fault. I don't remember much from that first week, but it was sort of a triage situation, wasn't it? We were all pretty roughed up even before reentry. I can't believe the five of us actually got up and walked away from that. That was more than I'd hoped for, to be honest."

It put a voice to something they'd all been thinking. Heero met Duo's gaze in earnest for the first time during their conversation, stopping him in his tracks. The forest fell heavy and quiet around them.

"Maybe we should've been dead years ago," said Heero. His voice was very clear in the silence, disrupted by not even the faintest trace of movement. They could've been the only two people left in the world. "We were meant to be consumed. To be disposable. What does it mean that we're all still alive? Did we do better than everyone expected—or did we fail?"

That was a tricky question, one that Duo himself had spent many hours grappling with. He hadn't found his own answer yet—didn't know if he ever would—but Heero's eyes were desperate for resolution, and Duo knew a thing or two about his friend's purpose. Knew that he was precious, if nothing else in the whole goddamn universe.

"Listen. You've got this really twisted notion about your death being the only thing that can validate your life," said Duo. "Who taught you to think that way? Because it's bullshit. It's an insult to everything you do that _doesn't_ involve a self-destruct sequence. Heero, believe it or not, it isn't your fault that you lived. You don't owe anyone apologies for keeping us breathing or trying to find Relena or sharing that stick joke—which I enjoyed, by the way. You just have to trust that you're in the right place now, and that you're doing good work. The rest of us believe in you. We only wish that you'd start believing in yourself for a change."

Heero flung his arms around Duo and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

Yeah, Duo had been going for heartfelt, and yeah, he'd always wondered how he'd react if Heero fucking Yuy ever expressed any physical affection toward him. Before today, he had his money on either weeping or wetting himself. It turned out that his response was more dignified than that, if only by a modicum.

"The _fuck_?" Duo mumbled. His mouth was squashed against Heero's shoulder.

"We're being followed," Heero whispered directly into his ear.

Duo stilled and listened. He heard it immediately: a low rustling from either side of the forest, shifting dead leaves, the metallic click of readied artillery. From the footfalls, he estimated a good three behind Heero and four or five behind himself. These guys weren't professionals—their poor attempts at stealth confirmed that—but they had numbers on their side, and possibly armaments and some knowledge of the territory, too. Duo closed his arms around Heero's waist and squeezed back, vying to look casual. "They're trying to surround us," he observed softly. "They want to secure the upper hand; they're not just looking to off us the moment they have a clear shot. Should we—?"

"Don't confront them yet," said Heero. "Let them make the first move. Act defenseless until Quatre and the others show up to back us."

"Right."

They broke apart and began walking again, careful to mark their pursuers' progress through the trees. Heero drew ahead slightly to take point. Staring at the taut line of Heero's back, Duo realized belatedly that he'd been too busy analyzing their situation to enjoy being locked in an embrace with the light of his life. He sighed. It just figured that their first hug, however strategic, was accompanied by an audience of eight armed raiders.

So Duo ended up telling the dirty mushroom joke after all, just as a means of feigning ignorance to their spectators. Heero laughed, but Duo had no frame of reference and couldn't tell if it was real or forced. He basked in it anyway. The movement in the woods drew even with them, then ahead of them. Just when Duo was beginning to doubt they were going to get any excitement, four of the men stepped out in front of them, each fortified with hand-rolled cigarettes and rusty rifles. Their munitions were antiquated, in obvious disrepair. Would still do the job at this range, though. Duo and Heero lowered their backpacks, warily opting for more mobility.

"Boys, welcome," the leader greeted, with a tip of his fedora. It was a ridiculous thing, all tattered and sooty and pretentious. Duo wrinkled his nose in distaste, drawing the brim of his own baseball cap down over his eyes. He and Heero waited without responding.

"Not very friendly, are they?" said Fedora's point man. He was large and muscled, handsome in the way of Norse royalty.

"Can't blame them," said Fedora. "Smart children are raised not to talk to strangers."

Duo bristled, feeling a tug on that rarely played thread. _Children_. Sure, their age had been obvious to the people they'd worked above during the war, but that fact was generally received with awe or approbation, not condescendence. He'd momentarily forgotten that this was an unwelcoming new world. Like most of the human race, their reputations had not survived. It functioned as a decent defense mechanism—after all, who'd felt threatened enough to launch an unprompted assault against a group of teenagers? Still, it stung a little; that sudden understanding of their status as other people would see it: they were roving orphans on the short side of sixteen. After all their blood and sweat and sacrifices, that was all they had amounted to.

It kind of blew.

Fedora stepped closer. He was close enough to touch them now, almost a foot taller with that dumb hat on. "Hello?" he said. "You understand what we're saying?" He tried clumsy greetings in a few other languages, then gave up. "Ain't they a sight for sore eyes," he told Erik the Red in a low, licentious aside.

"They'll be good company," Erik agreed. "Small. Healthy-looking."

Heero didn't move when the man drew forward and nudged his chin experimentally with the flared muzzle of his weapon, a large-barreled flintlock that looked about three hundred years old. His odor was appalling. Duo could smell him from behind Heero, a terrible blend of musk and waste and urine. Heero's hand tightened marginally on Duo's wrist, which he had grabbed without Duo's realizing.

One of the other men spoke up, peering past them. "Are they really alone? How could these two have survived this long by themselves?"

"Guess they have luck on their side," said Fedora, smirking. "They _look_ blessed. That's for sure."

When Erik the Red reached forward to cup Duo's face, Duo held still, prepared to receive the treatment with the same cool restraint as Heero had. But the instant Erik's filthy fingertips brushed against his cheek, Heero seized the man's forearm and twisted hard. He had him on his knees in an instant, grinding the sole of his boot against his shoulder-blade, gun to his temple. Acting on instinct, Duo whipped his own weapon out of his jacket. There was an upheaval and a clamor of metal as Fedora and his crew did likewise, cursing.

"No one touches him!" Heero yelled, hauling Duo behind him. He kicked Erik into the dirt and stepped away, one protective arm flung in front of Duo, forcing him backwards. "Don't move. I'll kill you all. Don't test me."

Fedora let out an incredulous little laugh, and in all honestly, Duo felt like doing the same. What the hell was Heero thinking? He was the one who'd ordered their passivity in the first place, and now he'd pulled his gun first—a single defense against a gang of eight leering raiders. Duo steadied himself against Heero as they inched away, training his own pistol between the trees with more composure than he actually possessed. There were at least four surrounding them, all veiled within the woodlands. Surely Heero hadn't forgotten that. Duo had never known him to make such reckless decisions when other people's lives were on the line.

"Where'd you find that gun, kid?" said Fedora gently. He'd trained his shotgun on Duo instead of Heero, showing his first sign of intelligence. "We don't want trouble, you know. We're not unreasonable men. We can make this real gentle and easy for you both."

"Back _off_!" Heero shouted.

"You can let me in on the battle plan," Duo murmured against his neck. "Any time now, Heero, baby."

Heero gripped him tighter and didn't respond.

They were sitting ducks. Firing a shot would be suicide for both of them. For all his posturing, Heero obviously knew it as well as Duo did, judging by the almost-imperceptible wobble of his arm as Fedora continued to advance on them with one hand raised in peace. When the creep was finally in reach, he reached out and brushed one callused thumb against the corner of Heero's mouth. Heero jerked away, scowling. Duo felt a slow shiver of disgust crawl down his spine.

"You be generous with us, we'll be generous to you," Fedora promised. "We'll protect you and take it real slow-like. I don't want to have to kill you boys. God knows you have more use to us alive than dead."

Duo set his jaw. "And if we refuse?"

Fedora shrugged, hefting his gun back into place. His smile was chilling. "We gotta eat, I guess."

The shot was muted. It barely even made a sound—just a minute whistling, sharp and neat, like something small falling very fast. Duo's grip tightened viciously on Heero's shoulders before he realized that a shotgun would be louder, closer. Heero's chin snapped up, too. They fumbled for each other, unhurt, already trying to shuffle backward out of the mounting conflict.

Fedora screamed and went down face-first into the dirt, collapsing at their feet with both hands latched to his thigh. His kneecap was a mess of bone and blood. He howled in pain, mouth contorted, his hideous hat upended on the ground beside him.

Duo jerked his head up to trace the bullet's trajectory back to its origin. Three more men were disabled before he even spotted them, camouflaged behind a copse of dead trees: Quatre signaling Trowa and Wufei forward, their guns at the ready, wearing identical expressions of militaristic determination.

The men in the forest were already showering their strike force with bullets. Quatre had led them in far enough east that Duo and Heero weren't in the crossfire, but they were still at a disadvantage, not having pinpointed the shooters' locations as the others already had. Two more shots. Two more down. The last man left standing from Fedora's cluster leapt for Quatre as he passed, and Trowa intercepted him with a solid roundhouse that knocked him on his ass. Duo put a bullet in his ankle and kicked his gun away, operating solely off of muscle memory. His mind was still reeling from their close call. He felt sick in some alarming, unprecedented way, his years of experience crumbling under him for the first time since he'd stepped foot on a battlefield. Trowa and Quatre took out the last two snipers with quick, controlled shots, their conduct firm and impossibly professional.

In front of them, Erik the Red was lifting his blunderbuss with trembling, blood-streaked hands. Duo noticed too late to dodge, but Heero was on him in one hot second, driving him to the ground as Erik fired a scattershot of shrapnel and broken glass. Sharp-edged detritus sawed through the air. Duo's breath whooshed cleanly out of his lungs as he struck the forest floor, Heero on top of him, crimson blossoming across the dark green canvas of his field jacket.

"Heero!" Quatre shouted. "Wufei—"

_Shhh. _The thin, neat sound of bone and tissue separating. Erik's severed head flew into the underbrush, trailing a stream of red. Wufei drew his blade back to one side, gazing down at Duo and Heero with a mixture of fury and concern. "All right?" he demanded, and Duo nodded numbly. Heero merely hissed in response. Blood trickled from his sleeves as he propped himself up on his elbows, his movements labored and jerky.

Fedora was still weeping with pain not three feet away. "No, please," he begged, as Quatre and Trowa about-faced and neared him. He was the last sign of movement in the whole area. His only surviving henchmen lay motionless beside him, bleeding and silent, clearly praying not to be noticed. "Don't kill me," Fedora babbled. "Please. I'm a father. I have two sons!"

"Shoot him," Heero rasped.

Quatre shook his head. Tension flashed in his eyes. "He's already incapacitated. There's no need to—"

_Bang_.

The bullet caught Fedora tidily between the eyes. He lolled forward, blood spreading in a slow pool around his head, and then was still and silent.

Duo slowly lowered his gun, then allowed himself to slump back against the ground, feeling queasy and exhausted. Sweat trickled down his temples despite the cold. Heero was still posed painfully above him, his breathing quick and ragged. For a long, tense beat, no one moved. Then Trowa slung Heero's arm around his neck and began easing him to his feet, and everyone's paralysis broke.

"Let's get to safety," said Quatre. "That won't be the last of them."

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><p>They left the two remaining survivors with their lives and bullets in each leg. They did not rake over the bodies for salvage, but buried the ammunition, kicked leaves over the guns. They walked four miles deeper into the forest before securing the perimeter and setting up a makeshift camp. No fire, so as not to risk attracting any unwanted attention. Trowa laid Heero stomach down on a heap of blankets and gingerly stripped off his jackets and sweater. Duo closed his eyes against the damage. Large chunks of glass and scrap metal riddled Heero's back, protruding around his spine and waist like teeth. Trowa sterilized a pair of medical tweezers in the flame of a lighter and set to work extracting the debris.<p>

"Is everyone okay?" Quatre asked at last. His hand was soft and steady on Duo's shoulder, somehow bracing. "I mean, um, emotionally. Psychologically."

No one else spoke up, so Duo answered, trying to sound calm. "Up to code," he said, flashing an a-okay sign. "Shaken, but not stirred."

"We turned back when we saw you two stop, but we wanted a head count before we moved in," explained Quatre. "We thought things were manageable for at least another few minutes. It got really bad really fast. I'm sorry we weren't in position."

Standing a few feet away, Wufei finished cleaning his sword and sheathed it, letting the bloodied scrap of fabric fall to the dirt before he ground it in with one heel. "Why did you draw your weapon?"

_Weapon_, not weapons. He was addressing Heero, who continued looking away into the dark, dense forest, making no response.

"It aggravated the situation sooner than we could compensate for," Wufei continued reluctantly, with no real heat in his voice. "It was—impetuous. We should have made it through that encounter with no injuries at all."

He was right, Duo thought, clenching his jaw. Fedora and his bootlickers had an edge from their overconfidence and acclimation, but they still should've been no contest against five trained war machines with superior weaponry. It was humiliating that they had received damages. If they couldn't handle the first wave of idiots they ran into, how were they supposed to combat the rest of the earth's psychos, regiments, cannibals? The only allowance Duo could grudgingly make for himself was his discomfiture at their sexual advances. He wasn't a moron; he'd been briefed on shit like that before. Still, the real thing was a little more upsetting than a combat exercise could communicate. He felt—polluted. Compromised. There was really no other way to put it.

Like hell he was going to ever let that type of crudeness affect him again, though.

"I made a mistake," confessed Heero suddenly, almost inaudibly. It startled everyone. He was resting his head in his arms, facing away from them, completely unresponsive to Trowa's work cleaning and suturing his wounds. "I was unsettled by their actions. I responded foolishly, and it will not be repeated. I hope you can forgive me."

Quatre lifted one shoulder, gave a sweet little half-smile that made Duo want to kiss him. "Nothing to forgive. I'm sorry you were hurt. We will do better next time, too."

"And we have a better idea of what kind of civilization we're dealing with now," said Wufei. "The 'civil' part being debatable, that is."

Trowa stitched the deep gash under Heero's shoulder-blade in quick, efficient strokes. His eyes were oddly hard under the dark fringe of his bangs. "We might as well rest for the time being. There's no rush to get to New Port City, and we've all had quite a shock. This type of warfare is personal, and will take some getting used to. We're lucky not to have encountered it until now."

"I already miss Sandrock," said Quatre, lowering his head. "I just—I don't like seeing their faces when I kill them."

"No, Quatre," said Trowa firmly. "They deserved to die."

It pretty much ended their discussion. Wufei retreated to the edge of their perimeter to take the first watch, and Trowa finished treating Heero's injuries, mopping up the dried blood and taping gauze pads over the worst of the contusions. Shadows rose and fell abruptly on the new earth, unforgivingly. When Trowa sought out a place to stare up at the murky sky, Quatre went with him, their voices a soft, warm cadence against the frost of the forest.

Duo searched the backpacks and found some light blankets to drape over Heero, mindful of his back. Heero closed his eyes and did not speak to him before he slept. Duo tried not to take it personally. He hugged his knees to his chest and tried to stave off his shivers, eyes fixed on the tense, beautiful bow between Heero Yuy's lips. It was very dark outside, and very, very cold.

* * *

><p><strong>End of chapter one<strong>

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><p>Thank you for reading. Please drop me a line to let me know what you think—I have no way of gauging audience interest otherwise. Suggestions, typo corrections, and concrit are <em>greatly<em> appreciated.


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